Havoc
by Vaetra
Summary: She had had difficult cases before, patients whose very proximity made her wonder how a human being could ever be so twisted. But never had she met anyone like him. Oneshot. Harley/Joker implied.


_Ugh, I wrote this in like half an hour very late at night, and I didn't edit it much when I typed it up, so... I don't know. I didn't used to like Harley Quinn that much, but she's definitely grown on me, and I started wondering about the sort of "in-between" stages of her transformation from psychiatrist to villainess. This was also partly inspired by the Harley Quinn/Harleen Quinzel of Locked Heart Ami's story "Agape." Go read it if you haven't. It's awesome._

Harleen had never found it very easy to get to sleep; every sound always seemed magnified in the dark, and she would lie awake for hours, trying to ignore the deafening noise of her own wavering breath, or the thudding of her heart. Even her own brain betrayed her on those nights, conjuring up not so much thoughts as images—indistinct shapes that always seemed half-familiar, and she would toss and turn, trying in vain to remember where she knew them from.

After she met _him_, though, Harleen found herself remembering her previous insomnia with something close to nostalgia. Because now when she lay awake in the ticking silence, her ears were flooded with _his_ voice, high and mocking, tilting into that manic laughter that seemed to pour over her like cold water, and made her shudder with fear and a weird sense of anticipation. And when she would roll over to smother her face in the pillow, trying to drown out the noise, _his_ face would float to the surface of her consciousness like the best kind of nightmare, the kind that lingers like a smell in your clothes, makes you press your palms into your eyes to stop it from flickering underneath your eyelids. The worst thing was that Harleen didn't _want_ it to stop. She didn't want to stop thinking of him, and though she knew it was sick and depraved of her to conjure up images of his face—unpainted and smirking malevolently—for a thrill as she lay, restless in the dark, she couldn't stop herself from doing just that.

So now, Harleen had given up even trying to sleep anymore, knowing too well where it would lead. She had even darker circles around her eyes from staying up every night, and he made comments—some innocent, and others decidedly not—about the possible sources of her apparent exhaustion. She ignored him, her mouth set in a line of grim satisfaction. Better to hear his words only once during the day, than repeated endlessly in her ears every night, like a soundtrack to her insomnia.

During her nightly vigils, Harleen tried to do things that would distract her from thinking of her too-clever patient, routine tasks that required concentration, but very few actual _thoughts._ She cleaned her apartment from top to bottom; she cooked more food than she could possibly eat; she played the radio loud enough to drive her neighbours mad; she put on all her makeup, washed it off, and then applied a fresh coat. So it was that, staring in the mirror at 4:30 am, her eyes rimmed with a bright turquoise liner she wouldn't think of wearing in any kind of polite company, Harleen couldn't help but laugh at herself.

How was it that a collected, well-respected, (and perhaps even somewhat talented) psychiatrist like her could be reduced to staying up all night, performing endless menial tasks to avoid fantasizing about her psychotic, mass-murdering patient? She had had difficult cases before, patients whose proximity made her wonder how a human being could ever be so twisted. But there had never been anything like this. No, nothing like _this _before.

Because _he _was different.

His dark eyes had a way of worming their way under her skin, turning her inside out for him to inspect at his leisure. She tried to remain professional around him, but then he would toss off a particularly unsettling comment (usually about her), or give her one of his _laughs_, and Harleen would be completely undone, all her questions forgotten in the face of his mesmerizing insanity. It was disturbing how easily he could strip away her flimsy defenses—(for it was all she could do now to guard herself against his behavior, let alone analyze it)—leaving her bare.

Harleen shuddered just thinking of it, but she was angry with herself a moment later. Hadn't she been trying _not_ to think of him, doing this? Her pale reflection glared back at her, cheeks brushed with candy pink, eyes garishly outlined with sparkly turquoise. She turned the sink on with more force than necessary, water blasting white and frothy from the stainless steel faucet. Harleen ducked her head under the jet, scrubbing furiously at her skin until her hands were painted with the ridiculous little girl makeup, but her face was bare once again.

She turned the faucet off, trying to ignore her shaking hands. She didn't want to admit to herself that maybe requesting to be the Joker's sole psychiatrist—his sole _punching bag_—hadn't been such a good idea, but as she stared at her exhausted, makeup-free reflection in the mirror, even Harleen had to admit that the effect he was having on her was plain. Without the eyeliner, she could see that the bruises around her eyes had deepened, making the rest of her skin look almost ghostly in comparison. Her face was drawn, and she could see fine lines around her mouth that spoke of a very long time of gritting her teeth. Harleen shook her head. This wasn't supposed to happen to her. She was supposed to be stronger than _this_.

Furious with herself for breaking so easily, she grabbed a screamingly red lipstick and unscrewed the top, smearing claret across her mouth. Her hand shook, and the color slid crazily up the side of one cheek. Just like him. The laugh that escaped Harleen's half-painted lips had no mirth in it, and she cut it off quickly.

Because it sounded just like his laugh.

She stopped, staring at herself in the mirror with new concentration. _Just like his…_ Before she could stop herself, she was lifting the lipstick to her mouth again, her hand steady as she finished tracing the shape of her lips and extending the scarlet smear across her other cheek, to match the first one. She recapped the lipstick and set it down next to the sink, admiring her smile in the mirror with a straight face. The vibrant color made the rest of her look washed out, her skin sallow, her pale hair floating like wisps of hay. It was incomplete, but Harleen knew what came next. She selected a stubby black eye pencil, thick and smudgy, from the jumble on the counter and began solemnly drawing it around her eyes, close to her lashes. But she didn't stop there, carefully extending the darkness out to the edges of her sunken eyes, covering the exhausted shadows. Staring from their newly made black pits, her eyes didn't look like hers. They hardly looked human.

Putting down the eyeliner, Harleen stepped back to survey herself in the mirror. Her heart gave a cold little jump of surprise, and she choked back a gasp. _He_ was staring back at her through the glass, his eyes darkened, his grin painted ear to ear.

_Hiya, Harley. I like this new look. You oughta wear makeup more often. You really are _beautiful_, you know. _His laughter rattled around her head like a caged bird and she snapped her eyes shut, bringing her hands up to cover her face. This had been a bad idea. _How_ could she have been so _stupid_…

His voice smashed into her thoughts again like a bullet through a glass window, the words from a conversation they'd had a few weeks ago. _You see, _everyone_ wears a mask, Har-ley. Some are just more _obvious_ than others. Like mine, for example. But we've all got one, something to hide behind. I wonder what you _really _look like underneath that pretty pale skin…_

Harleen squeezed her eyes tighter, reaching blindly for the faucet and turning the water on to full pressure. Once again, she pushed her face under the tap, frantically wiping the makeup from her eyes and mouth. She didn't look in the mirror again until she was sure it was all gone.

Opening her eyes, Harleen saw a faint lemony light leaking out into the patch of sky that was visible through her bathroom window. A quick glance at the glowing green numbers of the clock on the counter told her that she had to be at work in less than an hour. She hated that her stomach leapt in the anticipation of seeing him again, hated that despite all this, she was still intoxicated by him. But there was nothing she could do.

With a sigh, Harleen turned back to the mirror, and began putting on her makeup.


End file.
